“And the murderer,” Stokes grimly replied.
“Indeed.” Barnaby glanced at Duffet, then looked back at Stokes. “Any clue as to when it was done? From the relative dryness beneath the body versus the dampness on his back, I would assume it was sometime yesterday.”
Stokes nodded. “According to the butler, Mitchell had sent word two evenings ago that he would be returning to speak with Miss Finsbury yesterday afternoon. He was expected, but he never appeared. Duffet checked, and Mitchell did arrive on the coach that stopped at Hampstead yesterday afternoon.”
“So the murderer knew Mitchell was coming to the house and guessed he would be walking up this path. The murderer seized the chance and set the trap, and kept watch. When Mitchell stepped into the trap and went down, the murderer emerged from the bushes and repeatedly struck him until he was most assuredly dead. Then the murderer flung the hoop-hammer into the bushes and…” Frowning, Barnaby paused.
“Walked back to the house,” Stokes filled in. “That’s the most likely scenario. No one in the village saw any stranger around yesterday afternoon, arriving or leaving, other than Mitchell himself.”
Stokes paused, then went on, “But that’s not the end of the complications.”
When Barnaby looked his way, Stokes said, “On being shown the body, Duffet searched Mitchell’s pockets—and found a diamond necklace.”
Barnaby glanced at Duffet.
The young man’s face lit. “A fabulous thing, sir. It glittered like stars.”
“According to the butler, who, Duffet says, goggled as much as he did, the necklace belongs to Lord Finsbury.” Stokes read from his notebook. “It’s known as the Finsbury diamonds, is hugely valuable, and, in some circles at least, is well-known.”
Barnaby grimaced. “Old family jewelry, unless stolen, holds little interest for me, but if we need to know more, I know who to ask.”
“Cynster?” When Barnaby nodded, Stokes said, “It’s possible we might need to know more about the necklace, but at this point I can think of several more urgent questions.”
“But”—Barnaby glanced from Stokes to Duffet—“where are the diamonds now?”
“As mentioned,” Stokes grimly said, “the butler, Riggs, went into a tizzy at the sight of them, and he insisted they be immediately returned to his master. Duffet here, not understanding the usual procedures of a murder investigation, allowed himself to be swayed. He and Riggs took the diamonds back to Lord Finsbury.”
Eyes on Duffet, Barnaby asked, “How did Lord Finsbury react?”
Obviously regretting his unintentional lapse, Duffet hurried to assure him, “Exactly as one might expect, sir. He was stunned and shocked.”
“Apparently,” Stokes said, “Lord Finsbury had no idea the diamonds weren’t in the safe in his study.”
“He really was rattled, sir,” Duffet opined. “Went pale as a sheet. Then he took the diamonds and put them back in the safe—in a black velvet box, which he said was where he’d thought they’d been.”
Barnaby struggled to fit the puzzle piece of the diamonds into the picture of the murder forming in his mind. After several seconds, he met Stokes’s gaze. “That’s…a very confounding complication.”
“Indeed.” Stokes glanced at the body, then slid his notebook into his greatcoat pocket. “If you’ve seen all you need to see here, I suggest we go and speak with Lord Finsbury. The message I received, conveyed by the butler, was that his lordship is not best pleased to have the police about and he wants us out of his hair and off his property as soon as may be.”
They covered the body with a canvas and weighed it down with rocks. “The police surgeon’s men should be along any minute.” Stokes glanced at Duffet. “You left directions for them at the inn?”
“One of the stable lads will show them the way.” Duffet set the last rock in place.
With an approving nod, Stokes turned toward the house.
Starting up the path, pacing side by side, shoulder to shoulder with Stokes, with Duffet falling in behind, Barnaby quietly said, “Lord Finsbury can want and even demand all he likes, but this is murder—violent murder—and the guilty party has to be identified and brought to account.”
Stokes’s lips curled in a cynical little smile. “Which is why you’re here.”
Barnaby humphed. As they walked toward the house, while he mentally rehearsed the arguments with which to persuade Lord Finsbury of the unavoidable necessity of a detailed investigation, another part of his mind was busy juggling all the bits of evidence he’d already absorbed.
Reaching the end of the path, they stepped out of the screening trees and bushes onto a swath of lawn.
Barnaby and Stokes both halted, in wordless accord seizing the moment to study the house and glean all that the sight could tell them. A sprawling old manor with central parts dating from Tudor times, the building was larger than Barnaby had anticipated. A small forest of tall, ornate chimneys rose above the lead roof; it was the first week of December and smoke rose in thin columns from half a dozen terracotta pots. They were facing the southwest façade; the front entrance lay around the corner to their right, where the carriage drive emerged from the trees to end in a graveled forecourt. From where they stood they couldn’t see the front door.
Roughly half of the house had two stories with attics above, while the rest was comprised of ground-floor rooms somewhat haphazardly attached to the original structure.
Stokes stirred; having looked his fill, he was ready to move on.
Holding his ground, Barnaby murmured, “The price for my presence was a promise that I would tell Penelope all.”
From the corner of his eye, he saw Stokes’s lips quirk in a wolfish—teasing but understanding—grin. “Ah—I see.” Stokes settled again.
Barnaby consciously tried to see the house as Penelope—or, for that matter, Griselda—would; he and Stokes had learned that both ladies saw things neither he nor Stokes did. Or, rather, deduced relevance from details neither he nor Stokes even registered.
So he looked at the curtains, at how many rooms showed signs of occupation rather than being closed up. He noted the kempt-ness—the paintwork, how clean the windows were, the neatness of the flowerbeds. In the end, he simply tried to fix the picture in his mind.
Shifting, he glanced at Stokes. “I have no idea what we’ve missed, but I’m sure there’ll be something.”
Stokes grinned and they started walking across the lawn—a touch over-long—toward the front of the house.
When they rounded the corner and stepped onto the gravel of the forecourt, Barnaby halted again, taking another moment to fix an image of the front façade in his mind.
That done, he blinked, and his mind swung back to the body. To the question that kept niggling.
Stokes was patiently waiting. Meeting his eyes, Barnaby said, “If, unbeknown to Lord Finsbury, Mitchell had this fabulous necklace in his keeping, why was he bringing it back to Finsbury Court?”
Stokes held Barnaby’s gaze, then nodded and looked at the house. “Let’s go and find out.”
Side by side, greatcoats swinging, they headed for the front steps.
* * *
In the shadows cast by the curtains of the bow window in the drawing room of Finsbury Court, Frederick Culver stood beside Gwendolyn Finsbury. Both studied the men who had paused in the forecourt to look up at the house before striding toward the front door.
“The first two don’t look like policemen.” Gwen slanted a glance at Frederick. “Do you think that’s who they are?”
The men in question climbed the porch steps and moved out of Gwen and Frederick’s sight; Duffet, the local constable, followed. Turning his head, Frederick met Gwen’s gaze. “I don’t know, but we were told to expect an inspector from London—the dark-haired one might be he. He looks grim enough. The other…” Frederick frowned. “I don’t know about him—he doesn’t fit the bill.”
The second man, the one with curly fair hair, had moved with a certain
indolent grace that in Frederick’s experience usually signaled a member of the upper echelons of the ton. “Then again, appearances can be deceiving.”
They certainly had been in Peter Mitchell’s case.
Gwen didn’t need to hear the words to know what Frederick was thinking; the tightening of his mobile lips was indication enough. And, truth be told, she was still somewhat stunned at Mitchell’s transformation from charming gentleman to loutish libertine.
Turning from the now empty forecourt, she let her gaze travel the room, taking in all those seated on the sofas or in armchairs, or, in the case of Algernon Rattle, posing before the fireplace. Algernon was present because he was courting Miss Harriet Pace, daughter of Gwen’s Aunt Agnes’s old friends, Mr. Herbert Pace and Mrs. Olivia Pace. A close friend of Gwen’s, Harriet presently sat beside her mother on the corner of the sofa closest to Algernon, with whom she was conducting a low-voiced conversation. Beside her, Mrs. Pace was chatting earnestly to Agnes, seated on the other end of the sofa, and Mrs. Lucy Shepherd, who, along with her daughter, Juliet, occupied a love-seat angled to that end of the sofa.
Also a friend of Gwen’s, Juliet was pretending to listen to the older ladies, but Gwen would have wagered that Juliet was actually thinking—dreaming—of her fiancé, Mr. Jeremy Finch, who was a secretary in the Home Office and presently traveling with the Minister.
The older gentlemen, Mr. Pace and Mr. Thomas Shepherd, were quietly chatting in two armchairs on the other side of the room.
Everyone present had been invited by Agnes. The only exception had been Mr. Peter Mitchell, who had been invited by Gwen’s father; as Gwen understood it, her father had decided to invite Mitchell and had subsequently asked Agnes to organize a house party, and, as usual, had left all the rest to Agnes.
That being so, Gwen had yet to comprehend the reason behind the frown her father had directed at Frederick when Frederick had arrived. Admittedly her father wouldn’t have expected to see Frederick, who had only that week returned from countless years in deepest Africa. However, given that Frederick was the only child of the Culvers, longtime neighbors now deceased, who had been very close friends with her father, her late mother, and Agnes, who, as a spinster, had lived at Finsbury Court all her life, Gwen was at a loss to account for the antipathy she’d detected in her father’s welcome. Aside from all else, Frederick was Agnes’s godson.
It was Agnes who had run Finsbury Court ever since Gwen’s mother had died over a decade ago. Gwen was very close to her aunt, who had never attempted to step into her mother’s shoes with respect to Gwen herself, but, instead, had always been there, a rock-solid support.
What truly mystified Gwen was that the only instance she could recall of her father involving himself in any social decision was his invitation to Peter Mitchell—and look how that had turned out!
“Murder.” She whispered the word. After a moment, she murmured, “Everyone is talking about inconsequential things, but, inside, all of us are wondering who murdered Peter Mitchell—and why.”
Frederick arched a brow. “I think the overwhelming consideration goes somewhat deeper into self-interest than that.” A cynical comment, but, he was certain, all too true.
Gwen looked at his face. Studied his expression. “What do you mean?”
Frederick met her gaze. “I mean that the primary question in the minds of everyone here who isn’t the murderer goes more along the lines of: Will there be a scandal? And, if so, will it affect me?” He grimaced and added, “Or my daughter and her chances of a good marriage? Or my husband’s connections? Or my wife’s social standing?” He surveyed the group, then looked at Gwen. “You know as well as I how it goes.”
She held his gaze for an instant, then nodded and looked again at the others. The potential for scandal, the possibility of being tainted by it, was, indeed, the threat hovering over them all.
The clang of the doorbell echoed through the house.
All conservations suspended. Everyone strained to hear…
Footsteps—Riggs’s—crossing the front hall. The telltale squeak of the front door being opened.
Murmurs, but in deep voices too low to make out any words. Then the sound of the front door closing.
Everyone waited, breath bated.
Footsteps again, this time more than just Riggs’s, but fading away, presumably down the corridor to Lord Finsbury’s study where his lordship had retreated to await the arrival of the police.
Algernon eased out an audible breath and smiled winningly at Harriet, Mrs. Pace, and Agnes. “His lordship will take care of the authorities—just see if I’m not right. No need for us to be involved.” He lifted an elegant shoulder. “None of us knew Mitchell, after all—no reason any of us would have wished him harm.”
Algernon’s gaze briefly rose to Frederick’s face, then smoothly slid away as Mr. Pace and Mr. Shepherd both seconded Algernon’s comforting reassurance.
Frederick glanced at Gwen. “I fear that’s wishful thinking. Perhaps in the past such incidents could be brushed aside, but not these days.” He wanted to warn her; ignoring what was likely to come wouldn’t help her weather the storm.
She met his gaze, read his eyes, then nodded. “I suspect you’re right.”
He watched as she drew in a deeper breath; resolution, and a strength she hadn’t had years ago, seeped into her expression and etched her fine features.
Features the memory of which had kept him going—struggling and working to the limit of his capacity—throughout his long years in Africa. He’d always loved Gwen, although he was certain she had never known. From the time she’d been an awkward ten-year-old tumbling out of trees—he’d laughed and caught her and admired her spirit. His fascination with her had started then.
And had matured with the years. He had never questioned it; the emotion had simply always been a part of him. Gwendolyn Finsbury had been created for him.
Then his parents had lost much of their wealth in a fraudulent investment scheme and he had had to do something. He’d been good with languages, good at managing people; he had signed on with a company eager to expand their mines in Africa.
He’d worked hard. He’d succeeded.
Then his parents had died and he’d realized that although he’d amassed a fortune, he had no assured future, no one with whom to share his life.
It had taken several months to arrange, but he had come back to England with his heart in his hands, hoping against hope that Gwen would still be there. Still unmarried, still the same fascinating girl. Agnes had written occasional letters, but he had never given his godmother any reason to suppose that he was in love with her niece.
And he had never, ever, done anything to communicate his feelings to Gwen.
Within a day of returning to his parents’ house and sending a note around to Agnes, he’d received an invitation to the Finsbury Court house party. He’d deemed that beyond fortuitous, a sign that Fate had elected to smile on his suit and hand him the perfect situation in which to gauge Gwen’s feelings toward him, and, if the signs were propitious, to make his feelings known to her and beg for her hand in marriage.
He’d arrived at Finsbury Court—and instead of the girl he remembered, a woman had smiled sweetly at him and given him her hand.
He’d been ridiculously tongue-tied, smitten all over again, but in a much more adult way.
The Gwen who stood beside him now was not the girl he’d idolized, who he had set on a pedestal and worshipped from afar.
She was so much more.
She had facets he hadn’t imagined, layers he longed to explore.
And he wanted her with an even greater, more burning desire than before.
From that first instant, his attention had locked on her and hadn’t wavered.
And she’d seemed to return his regard.
Then Mitchell had laid hands on her and—
Frederick drew in a deeper breath of his own and quietly stated, “In case it crosses your mind, I didn’t even th
ink of killing him—not even at the time.”
Gwen’s lips twisted. “I can honestly state that you’re a better man than I.” Briefly, she met his gaze. “I did think of it—for a fleeting moment. He made me so furious.” She paused, then added, her voice lowering to a whisper, “I feared you might think that I’d encouraged him, perhaps to make you jealous—”
“No.” Lips thinning, Frederick shook his head. “That didn’t even occur to me.” He glanced down and met her hazel eyes. A moment passed, then he simply said, “I know you.”
And, he realized, he did.
CHAPTER 2
Barnaby followed Stokes through the door the butler, Riggs, held wide. Lord Finsbury’s study was located down a corridor off the front hall; with Penelope’s instructions high in his mind, Barnaby had used the moments since entering the house to look about him. Accustomed as he was to the homes of the ton’s elite, the interior of Finsbury Court did not match his expectations; instead, the furnishings echoed the exterior—a bit of a hodgepodge, and while everything had once been of good quality, most items appeared worn, even a trifle shabby.
One quick, comprehensive glance informed him that his lordship’s study was at one with the rest of the house.
Somewhat unexpectedly, Lord Finsbury was standing in the middle of the room in front of a large desk and the pair of chairs facing it, an unsubtle indication that he expected this meeting to be too short to warrant sitting down. Of average height and build, and showing a tendency to portliness, with thinning gray-brown hair, heavy brows nearly meeting over a patrician nose, and an expression of deep resistance, his lordship appeared a veritable caricature of an old-school peer of the stuffy, reactionary, stiff-upper-lip sort. Predictably, he frowned at Stokes as Stokes halted on the rug before him.
Stokes inclined his head. “Lord Finsbury. I’m Inspector Stokes of Scotland Yard.”
Finsbury’s gaze had already moved on to Barnaby.
“And,” Stokes smoothly continued, “this gentleman is the Honorable Barnaby Adair. The Chief Commissioner has requested that Mr. Adair assist in this case to ensure that the social ramifications are kept to a minimum.”